


The Shitty Onion Ring Incident

by tatterdemalionAmberite (amberite)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: An injection takes place but it is not extremely graphic, Anaphylaxis, Established Relationship, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Emergency, Sloppy Makeouts, Sylladex shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberite/pseuds/tatterdemalionAmberite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39135.html?thread=41480927#cmt41480927">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme.</p><p>The fact that you ate some onion rings of unknown provenance and then forgot about it before the sloppy makeouts began - that sucked, that was dumb, but you could probably forgive yourself if it was only that. Shit happens. The misidentification, though, that's the worst thing, that is gonna stick in your craw forever. You were thinking with your dick, Dave,<em> John almost died because you were thinking with your dick.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shitty Onion Ring Incident

You thought he was breathing funny because he was excited, at first.

John Egbert was so adorably awkward as a lover that it made him slightly unpredictable and very provokable and so when he made a sudden squeak on the exhale you thought it was a natural consequence of the fact that he was rocking his ass all over your lap and you were nibbling on his neck. The fact that his ears were turning red seemed pretty okay too. Because you're Dave Strider and you're hot shit. That was the most awful thing.

The fact that you ate some onion rings of unknown provenance and then forgot about it before the sloppy makeouts began - that sucked, that was dumb, but you could probably forgive yourself if it was only that. Shit happens. The misidentification, though, that's the worst thing, that is gonna stick in your craw forever. You were thinking with your dick, Dave, _John almost died because you were thinking with your dick._ It's going to haunt you for a very long time - worse than any stupid shit you ever pulled in the game.

Because you were all like "-Shit, John, you don't have to be so quiet, you can tell me how awesome I am," and there was this moment of quiet, and then he said, "You're awesome, but--" and you went on, damn it, babbling about how you were so hot that the center of the sun felt emasculated, or some shit. Digging your grave. Or his. Or yours, because you want to die of shame right now, because he was struggling to speak and kept saying your name and you thought it was cool --

\-- you _did_ notice, you did eventually, it didn't take you more than a minute of flapping your stupid mouth, but it also took looking at him and noticing that his face wasn't just flushed with excitement, it was also starting to look distinctly _swollen_ and--

"Oh, SHIT."

By then he was wheezing for real and this was _not cool._ Funny how things being _not cool_ is exactly the opposite of things being _hot_. Your boner wilted so fast you didn't even notice it wilting because you were not only not thinking with your dick any longer, you were not _capable_ of thinking with your dick. To hell with cold water, someone had snuck up behind your dickbrain and knocked it out cold with a frying pan.

He gasped and squeaked - funny how that didn't sound appealing now at all - "Dave," he said again, and had to take another breath to say the rest, "I think I--"

"I know. Shit. I know. You're having an allergic reaction. And I'm so fucking dumb I don't deserve to live." You were shaking so badly you think your hands dug into his shoulders too hard and bruised him as you shoved him off your lap onto the couch.

And now: THINK, STRIDER, THINK.

Sylladex. You have the epi-pen in your sylladex. John has one, too, but you're not going to try to make him do anything fancy right now. Oh _shit_ why did you change your modus last week to something that's complicated, even for you? - No. You're not even going to try to remember how to use this right now, just, no. This is not the time for pride. You are already the world's most execrable asshole and you are not going to compound the problem.

"I'll be _right back_ I promise," you say and his eyes go wide with fear and it makes you feel like kicking yourself some more.

But there's no goddamn time to kick yourself. Or to explain why you need to run out in the hall, which is fairly obvious when thought of, but at the same time you feel like you're abandoning him, unconscionably. You squeeze his hand, really hard, maybe too hard, and you roll him on his side because that's what you're supposed to do when people can't breathe properly, and you're grateful to remember even that.

You run up the hall, duck for cover, press the big red button, and ruin several weird stupid harlequins with a projectile rain of shitty swords, electronics, and bottles of apple juice. A kung fu movie poster flutters down over your head.

The little box containing the two injectable doses almost rolls out of your sight but you manage to grab it and it slips out of your fingers once but you pick it up again and yell "John I've got it--" even as you're running back in, because he hasn't been alone for very many seconds but every one is too many and a testament to how badly you've fucked up. He's still lying on the couch trying to get air and you think you see a slightly dusky tinge to his complexion and you _really_ don't want it to get bad enough that you can tell for sure.

"I'm sorry, this is gonna hurt, I'm sorry-" you're babbling now, getting the epi-pen out and the safety cap off the thing, and he actually _rolls his eyes_ at you and manages a sarcastic look, like _of course it's going to hurt, you big dweeb._ He's the one with the allergy; this is practically routine on his end. Another year, another close call.

You are stunned by the realization of how _hardcore_ John is; you treat him like he's the naive one, and he is sometimes, but - no matter how well you can handle strifing or time shenanigans or parallel parking, he's the one who's lying there in Chapel Medically Perilous and _rolling his eyes_.

The cap's off. "Aaaand here it comes." You shove the injector up against the side of his leg with a hard WHACK.

"OW FUCK," he hisses. It comes out thick and slurred around his swollen mouth.

You hang on - you've got to keep holding it there for a while for the injection to go in. "Sorry, J-bert, I figured you'd rather I didn't spend a lot of time worrying about placement." You hold your voice carefully casual, light, cool, stay cool, don't _scare_ him for chrissakes. He's going to have a hell of a bruise, even _with_ the epinephrine constricting blood vessels around the site, you thumped the hell out of that thing, wound up on your own hormonal cocktail of JESUS FUCK JOHN IS GOING TO DIE.

And now there's waiting, and John can't talk normally yet so you are just going to have to do the talking. You should be calling 911 already, you know that from your class, but he doesn't want an ambulance bill and neither do you. So you're going to be his very own personal goddamn ambulance, just as soon as you confirm that this thing is _working._ You check the sense of time in your head; a minute goes by without a change and you're going to shell out for the goddamned ambulance.

But right now: you wrap your arms around his sorry ass and hang onto him protectively, careful not to put your lips on him again. "Shit, you're fucking hardcore, you know that? I would shit my pants if this happened to me. Honest to god. If this happened to me I would _shit my pants_ and there would be un-ironic diarrhea all over the fucking floor." You're babbling, repeating yourself, and you know you sound stupid but if it keeps him preoccupied that's okay. The subject of explosive diarrhea is an easier one, somehow, than _I love you, I love you, please don't die, please especially don't die because I was stupid, please._

"Thanks," he chokes out, "for the mental image." He's speaking a little more effectively, and you can tell that his airway's opening back up and the swelling's going down and the Stridermobile will be playing the role of an ambulance ride today.

Now you can say it. Now that the danger's dissipating. "I love you, John, I love you, jeeez, don't do that to me ever again," you say inanely, even though it was something _you_ did to him, even though it's something you're going to be half out of your head with apologies for as soon as you're in the ER waiting room.

"I will, of course," he says. "You proposed to me because," and he still has to keep pausing for breath but it's getting better, it's getting better - "because I can... always make you squirm..."

\-- and dammit if the jackass prankster taking spurious credit for his own allergic reaction isn't the one thing that can jolt you out of your despair.

He sees that it does, too, and grins weakly up at you.

"Now get me in... your stupid Honda," he says, and you're already lifting him up in a fireman's carry as he mutters something about, "want to read the window decals... bet they're not even real bands..."

"Just now figured that out, did you?" you ask.

And if he sees the tear streaks on your face as you set him down in the passenger seat, if he sees your hands shaking and fumbling and missing the ignition slot the first time, he doesn't let on about it, instead complaining that Putrid Wax Disco is a _terrible_ fake band name, and you're so grateful that if you didn't have to drive you would outright start bawling. 

Because it lets you know he's going to be okay. _You didn't break him. He doesn't break that easy._ Later there will be apologies. Later there will be actual consummated makeouts and you will solemnly swear up and down to stay away from shitty no-name fast food. But right now, it's worth everything in the world to you just to drive forward and listen to him breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Full Prompt:
> 
> dave has to use john's epipen on him. thank god he learned how in that 2 hour class he took like forever ago when he started dating a guy with a life threatening medical condition. maybe he carries one in addition to the one john usually has because he's a paranoid mother hen, for as cool as he pretends to be he would give anything at all to keep those he loves safe.
> 
> this prompt is for john to have a allergic reaction for whatever reason in public (at a party? at a conference? grocery shopping? on a date?) or private (someone gives food to dave and forgets that he lives with someone with an allergy? dave thinks something he ate earlier didnt have allergens and then they make out? trying out a new brand of something and it turns out not to be as safe as it looked on the label for whatever reason?) if dave accidentally caused it hes probably going to be pretty dang upset. im looking for the... urgency i guess of a medical emergency but i want john to be ok in the end and for there to be lots of hugging and all the associated trappings of your usual hurt/comfort fic
> 
> why do i wish these things on the characters i love
> 
> (And I guess it was the sheer sympathy I had for that last line that made me cave and write this thing when I was supposed to be working on something else, because I love to torment my favorite characters so much it isn't even funny. That and the desire to be mostly medically accurate.)


End file.
